“Is this your hat?” Chump turns to find the huge blond security guy (Zark, Damon recognizes him) clutching Tucker’s cowboy hat in both hands. Gay sex “Are you all right?” The security guy’s losing his color, looking pale and spacey. Uncharacteristically silent, he’s surveying the parking lot, having backed his small truck into a space that turns the property into the closest thing possible to a panopticon, giving him an unobstructed view down several rows of floodlit cars and two sides of Trask’s, an urban roadhouse located just off the Interstate. (“Improvisation, son,” Damon’s told him.) He’s beginning to suspect that what he’s dealing with in Damon is probably borderline insanity, if not a death wish. GOING SHARKINGBy Simon TraumDamon’s deep, dark eyes stare out through the ticking carapace of the drizzle-spattered windshield into the gathering dusk. They’re out in back of the building now, and no one else is around, so he pushes Damon against the wall and slides back inside his butt.
